


My Father's sins

by Effenay



Category: Original Work
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Gen, POV First Person, Religious Conflict, Self-Discovery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-05
Updated: 2017-02-05
Packaged: 2018-09-22 04:36:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9583901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Effenay/pseuds/Effenay
Summary: A man's journey back to the past, following the roots of his origins as he discovers the secrets of his father's past.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this plot down a long time ago when I was still in high school. It was tale I wrote long ago back in 2014. Now to me, that was a hard year, and I don't know what possessed me to writing something like this. I considered adding this to another pile of works but upon discovering that this is actually a multi-chapter story that wasn't exactly finished. with that said, well, I don't expect much out of this plot because I literally had the worst time in my life when I was writing this up. All angst was spewing out of me as I was facing the last year of my adolescent years so I don't really have anything to say other than that.

I was once a traveller before I came to the land of the mystic Isles. I’ve only been to two places in my whole entire life; first was my homeland, second was my second home in Australia. My homeland was an impoverished island that the world had taken advantage of. For many reasons alone, I do not wish to speak of that place; not for the reasons that I am neither ashamed nor pained of my experience in living there, but I just think that it is totally unnecessary. To say that I was afraid of looking back could be a better explanation, but that does not tantamount the reason.

When you look at it at a certain point of view, the moment you step out of your homeland and spend a vast amount of time living in a foreign land, you start to question where you really belong. When you are a foreigner you either hate the land you land on or you come to love it too well. If you came to love it too well,  the sad part about it is when you mingle with the “natives” in a matter of speaking. When you start mingling with them, the problem about it is if your moralities clash with their principles or that their experiences do or do not tantamount to yours, you start to realise how different you are to them. “An Outsider” you could say.

There is also some sense of loneliness when you leave your hometown. You look at the land you lived on and sometimes you think; “This is not your home.” But when you look at your homeland, you tend to think; “This is no longer your home”. It cannot be helped. We are human beings after all. It took me a while as a child to realise that. I calculated that by the time I visit my hometown, things will change. The only friends you have will move forward; the places where you have spent your childhood are gone for good. Whereas you who lived in a foreign land would be locked in your own past and never moving forward with that motivation of; “truly, and surely, I will see them again and it will still be the same”. As the famous saying goes; “Time waits for no one”.

Some might ask; “you call yourself a traveller; but you’ve only been in two places”. Well, I call myself one because I wish to be one. But I have seen two different worlds, and it is enough for me to grasp that mere ignorance of the other side are only good if you wish to dream. It took me two worlds to realise that not only is the world unfair, it also reminded me how everything in life is not for free.

* * *

Years and years ago, while my father was still alive; there was once a town called _Peril._ The town once was a dignified place filled with areas that filled the holes of other people’s hearts. Such a town did prosper in such a time, until my father came along.

“From this day forth,” he orated on the centre stage of the ampi-theatre, “This town shall be cursed with the blood of the slaves you have slaughtered to make this town. Every gold you earn from blood shall be taken from you. Every hand you raise against another shall be punished.”

The entire town revolted at the words of my father. I heard from the rumours that he was slaughtered while my mother carried me in her womb. Such tragedy it was to know that I would be born during the event when my father was murdered. The unsuspected child that was me who could only nod to show that I understood the price of my father’s blood was the freedom of the town of Peril.

And yet, my father’s prophetic words struck a inevitable event which led to the town’s downfall. My mother, who had me not long after, was given no choice but to leave as soon as she heard that the town was out for my blood. It was obvious that I inherited my father’s spirit as many had told me. Sure enough that my mother found out about the fate of the town. As the years passed by, the town succumbed to their greed and destroyed each other like ruthless animals.

I once visited the sight and saw its remains; the town was filled with broken down buildings. Some of the buildings were filled with mould and rust. The town that was once Peril became a land that was cursed by my father’s blood. Even the greenery refused to grow in such a desolate place.

“How far do you intend to go from here,” Irene asked. “This whole lot was said to have ghosts lingering around.”

“No,” I shook my head, “ghosts are nothing more than demons that steal the faces of the dead. Even though they are nothing more than demons, I intend to speak to them.”

Irene slowly nodded, “right,” she said dubiously, “You didn’t even answer my question; how far are you willing to go in this ‘ _ghost_ town’?”

“I am not too sure, to be honest,” I admitted. “After I heard about the rumours of the disappearances of many who visited here, I am not quite sure about going deeper into this town.”

“But you just said that you intend to converse with a ‘demon’, remember?” Irene scratched her head.

“Sorry, that was just my big head,” I chuckled.

Irene scoffed a little but held it in at the end of it. Of course, she didn’t like being dragged into a desolate place like this.

Years passed on since I first visited Peril. I found out that there were things that could neither be forgiven nor hated; sometimes one cannot help but pity at such a fate. Peril is not the town that I should be telling you about, nor should it be forgotten. To know one’s roots would know one’s self, the sins of the past cannot be forgiven so easily, as they are carried from generation to generation. I suppose there was a lesson learned in the town of Peril it was just the matter of interpreting it.

It was just a matter of time when I found out how my experience in Peril applied to a not so distant future.

****

“What is your name?”

I swallowed hard before the end of barrel of the rifles; sweating bullets as silence added to the tension.

“Answer my question, Northerner,” the black clad officer commanded, “What. Is. Your. Name.”

“…D-Damien,” I stuttered, “Damien Marksville.”

“So, Mr. Damien Marksville,” the officer dubiously asked, “What is a Northerner such as you doing in Oltros?”


	2. Chapter 2

_“Damien Marksville”_ it said on the slip of paper;

_“Come to the office before the end of the day.”_

I tugged off the slip of paper from the pin that held it to the cork board and slipped it into my pocket.

“Marksville!” hollered my grandmother, “I’ve made you some tea, would you like some?”

“I’m coming,” I hollered back.

It was strange to some that my grandmother Rosalyn would call her own grandson by their last name. The truth of the matter was that my grandmother is actually my father’s adopted mother, who was actually a daughter of a man who owned an orphanage; in other words, my father’s caretaker. As complicated as it sounds,  my grandmother help my mother escape from the persecution of the town of Peril. My mother told me that my family were the only survivors of Peril.

“Believe it or not,” my Grandmother began as she served us tea, “my father was the second casualty after your father’s death. He supported your father until he was shot down. After it happened my father attempted to soften the people’s hearts. It worked for a short while until his own kindness got him killed.”

“Why?” I asked as I was more intrigued than horrified at my family’s history. “How did he die?”

“God bless his soul,” my Grandmother answered, “my father was willing to hand over my mother’s crucifix which was her parting gift to him before she died. The poor man demanded more and shot him at point-blank range.”

I sputtered at my tea. _How could you say this with ease?_ I thought.

“How are you so calm about it?” I asked as I cleared my throat.

“Ah, well,” my Grandmother shrugged. “When God comes into your life, you are able to move forward from such events and use those tragedies as stepping stones.”

“I guess,” I said reluctantly.

“Which reminds me,” from where she sat, she reached for her purse and revealed a pendant that was attached to a string of beads. The design was more or less like the sort of jewellery you would find from an ancient civilisation or a fantasy. The pendant had a large stone embedded onto a bezel with an odd insignia on it.

Grandmother placed the pendant onto the table and continued; “My father and mother once worked with a historian whose only wish was to give this to someone who could keep it safe until the historian would return.

“Unfortunately,” Grandmother added, “After the fall of Peril, I am afraid that my parents weren’t able to keep their promise and entrusted it onto my care.”

It was not hard for me to guess what she was requesting, so I said to make sure “In other words, you want me to keep a hold of this for safe-keeping.”

“Yes,” Grandmother enthusiastically said, “I want you to keep this pendant, since you are the only descendant left in the family.”

“What about Mom?” I asked, “Wouldn’t it make sense that you should entrust this onto her?”

“I’ve tried,” Grandmother answered with a sigh, “but as much as your mother stopped her gambling habit, she wouldn’t trust herself in keeping something that could be worth a fortune.”

“Oh,” I nodded, “I see.”

The town of Peril was as similar as it was to the tale of Sodom and Gomorrah, a tale that my family was most familiar with. My mother in some ways was influenced by Peril’s culture; where everyone could win by a gamble and not by mere skill. It was not just gambling that my mother was affected by there were many other things as well.

“How is she, by the way?” my grandmother asked.

“She’s doing fine,” I answered, “although, she kept pestering me about what I saw in Peril. Irene couldn’t stop yabbering about how long it took for me to be satisfied in looking at the buildings.”

Grandmother chuckled and sipped her tea. I inhaled the aroma of the Chamomile herbs and took a sip. Without me realizing it, my grandmother watched me with a smile on her face.

“What is it?” I asked when I met her gaze.

“Your father did the exact same thing,” she answered dreamily. “I remembered how it was; your father refused to drink any coffee or tea when he was offered. It was funny because when your father found out that Chamomile tea came from the flowers that bloomed in my garden, he then started demanding for Chamomile tea.”

“He would do this thing with the cup,” Grandmother demonstrated, raising her own cup to her chin. She then inhaled deeply in a child-like manner and exhaled. “And then he would say; ‘ah, that’s the stuff!’”

“Did he really?” I laughed at the thought.

“Yes, he did,” Grandmother sputtered her words with laughter. “It turned out that he only wanted to inhale the tea rather than drink it.”

All the way through, we sat there as we talked about my father throughout the whole of my break.

Over the course of our conversation, my grandmother then declared; “Oh, look at the time.”

I turned around to see the long hand of the clock pointing to three and the short hand pointing to the six.

“Oh,” I frowned in my own disappointment. I wished my break did not end so soon. “That’s too bad.”

“Perhaps another time, Marksville,” my Grandmother said.

“Grandmother,” I said, “When will you ever call me by my given name?”

“You are an adult now,” Grandmother admitted. “Don’t adults want to be addressed like an adult?”

This surprised me, realising that that was the only reason.

“I think you took that a little too extreme,” I smirked, “This is no longer Peril, Grandmother this is Australia.”

“I suppose,” my Grandmother smiled.

I nodded to her as I left for work.

****

“I suppose you have a reason for calling me here,” I sighed at Irene.

“Of course,” Irene said sharply.

“Okay,” I slumped to the chair and crossed my legs. “What is it this time?”

Irene slammed a pile of sheets onto the desk.

I stared at it blankly. _Oh great,_ I thought.

“Aaah….” I dropped my jaw in a monotone.

“Don’t ‘ah’ me, Damien,” Irene chided, “Explain yourself.”

There was only one explanation for it: they were all drafts that I never ended up finishing. For a long time, I kept writing and writing stories that I never finished. Irene, a friend of mine since high school was my personal editor for a year until she gave up on it due to the pile of homework we had at the time. It was also at that point in time where I consistently sent my drafts to her as soon as I finished a chapter. After I lost one of my chapters, I lost all my motivation and stopped writing for a long time.

“How could you stop writing when you haven’t even gotten to the juicy part of the story?!” Irene raised her hands as though the world was about to end.

That statement took me by surprise. “Huh?”

“Your concepts for stories intrigued me a lot,” Irene continued bantering, “If anything, you have no idea how much potential you have in a story like this.”

“That was a long time ago,” I muttered. _Really, you bring this up now?_ “I was in the midst of a delusion while I was writing that.”

“Delusion or not,” Irene scoffed, “a story like this was worth its weight in gold….” –she paused and cleared her throat- “except that the pacing is too slow.”

“So you called me here to be my editor again?” I asked.

“No,” Irene answered in her usual blunt manner, “I called you here to ask what you wanted to do with it. If you don’t want it, I’ll keep it.”

 _Oh,_ I thought, _is that so?_

“Ah-huh,” I nodded slowly.

“So, what’s it going to be?” Irene asked with a smirk on her face. “Either way, one of us will have it.”

“Keep it,” I said abruptly.

“Really?” Irene asked, her brow raised in clear surprise, “no second thoughts? You know that you could always write again.”

“I have my own copy at home,” I explained, “But I don’t think I will end up writing again anyway. I’ve given up…” I paused for a thought. _Well, not entirely,_ a thought whispered.

“Anyway,” I changed the subject, “I heard you’ll be gone for a few days rather then a month.”

Irene scratched her head. “Yeah,” she said slowly. The tone of voice she used was the same tone she used when she was uncertain or hiding something, based on my experience with her.

“You don’t look like you know what you’re doing,” I bluntly commented.

“You don’t have to say it that way,” Irene said defensively. “It’s just that things happened, and I can’t guarantee what’s going to happen when I leave.”

“Well,” I sighed a little, “if you want me to understand you, than the very least thing you can do is tell me what’s going on.”

“What do you mean?” Irene asked dolefully.

Once more, Irene gave me the run-around, saying such cryptic words to explain what she tried to express. There was a period where she disappeared for two years without any contact. Initially, I thought that it was because of University life that stopped our connection. Not once has she been able to tell me what had happened.

“You’ve been secretive for the past few years,” I said, “Even though you’ve treated me the same way as you did when we were in high school, but you’ve been out of it for a while now.”

“Ah well,” Irene chuckled, “things happened and I changed, I suppose.”

 _Change, huh,_ I scoffed a little. Two years is a long time, but it did not warrant the current state that she was in. Without me realising it, I furrowed my brows and my eyes watched her in the midst of my concern.

“Okay then,” Irene appeared to have noticed my expression, “I’ll tell you what happened, I got a new job.”

I dropped my jaw. “You cannot be serious,” I said darkly.

“I’m serious,” Irene laughed.

“But what about your career?” I asked, “Wasn’t this your dream, to be a journalist? Didn’t you work so hard just to get into this company?”

 _What about the things you were so passionate about?_ I thought; _What about that passion in revealing the truth of the secrets the modern age holds?_

“I’m still here,” Irene said, as if she was assuring me. “I haven’t given up on it; it’s just that if I don’t screw up on this one, I’d be putting my career in jeopardy.”

“What do you mean jeopardy?” I asked, “You’re already risking this one career by getting another one. You won’t be able to get enough time to even write an article with that.”

“Hey,” Irene placed her hand on her hip, “I’ll manage somehow.”

“What kind of answer is that?” I asked sharply, “Its suicide to even do something like that. Doing two full-time jobs will kill you!”

“Who said it was a full-time job?” Irene asked in a ‘ _humph’._

“Even so!” I continued to banter, “It’s a stupid move to do something like that.”

“Don’t call it ‘ _stupid’,_ idiot,” Irene retorted.

I sighed as I thought; _why does it always come to this?_

“You know what?” I angrily said, “Forget it, it’s your life; you can choose when and where you’re going to die anyway.”

Irene said exasperatingly; “Can you stop that? Stop controlling my life, idiot!”

“I’m not controlling it!” I barked, “I was worried about you, you idiot!”

“Don’t call me an idiot!” Irene pouted.

“Well then, stop calling me that!” I retorted.

“Stop criticising what I do; it’s my life!” Irene angrily said, “You don’t have the luxury to even put me down like that!”

“What the heck is wrong with you?” I asked, “Did I not say that I was worried? First, you accused me of not even caring what happened to you, and now you’re telling me to stay out of it. Irene, for the love of all that I know, please, please, why can’t you allow me to say something without you jumping into conclusions?”

Irene gave out a frustrated sigh. I scoffed at her expression.

“Why?” Irene asked, “Why do you do have to be like that?”

“Because you’re my friend,” I answered swiftly, “and because I am your friend, I have the right to show my concern.  It’s better than a back-stabber.”

“Thanks,” Irene answered glumly. “You’re the worst person to go to if that’s the case.”

I laughed, “I heard that line before seven years ago.”

Irene soured. I sighed once more.

“Okay, I’m sorry,” I reluctantly said, “I take it back. Are you happy now?”

“No,” Irene responded sharply.

“If you’re going to sulk, then I wash my hands on this case,” I said as I stood up.

It was no surprise despite us being 25 years old; we still act like our eighteen-year-old selves whenever we see each other. Although I claimed to have changed since that time, I found myself acting like my eighteen-year-old self whenever I see her. Oddly enough, she changed in such a way that she mellowed down compared to how she was seven years ago.

**Author's Note:**

> This work was not beta-read (and not to mention the awkward sentencing) so don't expect much out of it.


End file.
